


A Show of Unity

by DrPearlGatsby



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Fake Relationship, Fluff and Angst, GRSecretSpy, Gingerflower, Gingerrose - Freeform, Holiday Themes, Mutual Pining, Rosehux, Sharing a Bed, Stranded Together, parties/galas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28438890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrPearlGatsby/pseuds/DrPearlGatsby
Summary: After the First Order Industries Holiday Gala and a freak blizzard, Hux and Rose wind up together in a drafty old bed-and-breakfast. Both think the other person would rather be anywhere else. They’re both wrong.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico
Comments: 14
Kudos: 62
Collections: Gingerose Holiday Exchange 2020: Secret Spy





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dianalynn1138](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dianalynn1138/gifts).



When Rose wakes, she’s surprisingly comfortable and surrounded by the faint scent of Hux’s cologne. She feels his warmth at her back, his body curled around hers, and allows herself to linger in spite of how much she knows she’ll hurt later. His body rises and falls with his breaths where he presses against her, and Rose— _pretends_. She pretends that his warm sweater was borrowed out of something other than necessity, that one of his bare legs rests against hers on account of comfort and familiarity and affection. But no matter how hard Rose pretends, she’s awake enough now to know how separate reality is from fantasy.

**.**

_earlier_

**.**

Every time Hux’s hand brushes the skin of her back, it’s everything Rose can do not to jump out of her skin.

The ballroom is warm and lit brightly enough to properly see all the tasteful decorations but dimly enough so as to seem intimate and a place for someone to linger. The whole place is bedecked in string lights and silver tinsel, giving off a classy, sort-of-vintage theme, and the partygoers’ attire is that sort of expensive that looks _just_ plain enough to appear humble. From the very start Rose finds herself pushed about the room at a surprising speed, never stopping for more than a few moments at each standing or seated table, at times snagging a glass of champagne and then one or two hors d’oeuvres comprised of unrecognizable ingredients only to have the remnants—the empty glass, the cocktail napkins—plucked from her fingers by the ever-polished and polite catering staff. Rose wouldn’t be surprised if the chandeliers were brought in special for this occasion, if the _wallpaper_ was an added touch. Hux has made promises about First Order, has begun to make good on them; but that doesn’t make the company not filthy rich.

“Hux. Things weren’t right without you,” says a blonde man extending a hand. He shakes Hux’s hand harder than necessary, Rose thinks; as soon as he withdraws his hand, he rests it again on her bare back, his fingers light.

“I did what was necessary,” Hux begins, but his fingers are petting at the small of her back and Rose forgets to hear the conversation entirely, happy that her skin isn’t as fair as his, isn’t as prone to blushing. Hux’s touch is feather-light and gentle, almost absent-minded, and Rose has to swallow hard as her heart flutters around in her chest. The problem is Hux’s hand on her feels so heartbreakingly _intimate_ , like he thinks of her as something more.

Too soon the man gives them a curt nod and heads off and Hux is applying that pressure to her back again, steering her forward. Rose isn’t sure how long they’ve been moving through the room, meeting various managers and executives; her tasteful black purse was deemed not delicate enough for an evening bag and checked along with her coat, so her cell phone is out of reach. No one else here seems to have a phone on hand anyway—other than the smattering of preteens and teenage children who are trying so _very_ hard not to appear enchanted by the whole scene. Rose, meanwhile, has to affect the opposite attitude: enchanted and demure, quiet except to agree that the room is “lovely” or “charming” and accepting with a nod of her head compliments about her dress.

A couple approaches, both of them graying, both of them in understatedly elegant clothing that probably costs half her yearly salary. “Hux,” the woman says almost warmly. “And who is this?”

“Rose,” she offers, noticing that the woman has extended a hand. They nearly-handshake, nothing more than a light touch, and Rose doesn’t miss how the woman looks her over. Whenever Hux introduces her to his nondescript subordinates, he gives her full name: “This is Rose Tico.” She supposes it would imply the need for a longer ruse were he to call her his girlfriend, though she knows that’s the appearance she’s meant to give.

“Rose is an engineer with Resistance,” Hux says conversationally, steering the conversation back towards business. The woman offers Rose one last glance before inquiring after Hux’s latest plans for the merger.

Though Rose tries not to admire him, Hux is, of course, absurdly handsome, even deliberately underdressed. It’s something Phasma had explained as an attendant had slipped over Rose’s head high-end dress after high-end dress—something about making him look more approachable, a political decision. Rose thinks he’d feel more at home in a suit, but the deep green sweater under his dark blazer does something devastating to his bright hair and eyes.

_Won’t I look out of place?_ Rose had protested as Phasma chose for her the heavily-beaded red number. Rose hadn’t even known what to expect out of the dress until it had arrived at her apartment, small as the sample size had been on her pudgy body. The salesclerk had busied about her job without commentary on how the dress wouldn’t zip, how it puckered at her stomach; but Rose had read judgement in Phasma’s cool appraisal. _Of course not_ , the other woman had said to Rose’s protests.

Once again, Hux’s surprisingly-warm hand steers her away from this standing table to the next. She tunes out the conversations almost immediately—comprised as they are with little more than obligatory pleasantries—but in a rare moment, Hux’s hand gives her an extra nudge and she looks up into his face.

_Shit_. His eyes have crinkled just slightly at the edges his mouth held in a pleasing neutral line. It’s his almost-smile, the sort of look he used to give her over shared coffee breaks and schematics during the stretch of months when he was completely independent of First Order, when his work uniform was casual khakis and a button-up. She’s not seen this expression on his face in a while. She’s forgotten how wholly it devastates her.

“What?” she blurts inelegantly, wanting to dispel the brain fog.

“Just checking in,” he says, his voice professional, reminding her yet again that her role tonight is just for show.

“Actually, I’m going to the restroom,” Rose announces, stepping out of his reach and turning her back before he can protest. The room has several exits and she chooses one at random, politely moving through the guests an out into the hallway.

The bathroom is just as lavish as everywhere else, with tasteful evergreen springs strung up around the mirrors. Rose stands in front of a long mirror with the pretense of checking her makeup, which of course hasn’t had any reason to wear off or smudge. She looks like a doll, like a Barbie of herself, the high collar and short sleeves of the calf-length dress making it look like a stylized áo dài. Rose had joked with Kaydel that this would be her “spy mission,” trying to hype herself up for the glamor of it all, but ultimately she only felt frustrated and used. Except for a moment ago, Hux hasn’t spared her a single extra glance, hasn’t made any comments on her appearance other than, “You look well.” _It figures_.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Hux shifts behind her, and Rose pretends to stay asleep. But soon the warmth curled around her withdraws, and after some noises of rustling fabric—the _clink_ of a belt suggests he’s pulled his pants on—she hears the door to their room open and close.

Sighing, she turns over to survey the empty bed, then reaches for her phone on the rickety, ancient nightstand. Every scrap of furniture in this bed-and-breakfast looks as if it may fall apart if you breathe on it incorrectly, but thankfully the bed and the large old-fashioned wardrobe in the corner have held their own through the night.

9:21, the phone says, and Rose double-checks that she hasn’t received any more transportation alerts, opening not just her text messages but her email. The phone’s battery has run low—she’s down to 27%—but she figures this qualifies as an emergency.

“Train’s not running yet,” Hux says, reentering the room and practically reading her mind. “No rideshare or even _taxis_ in this godforsaken little town.”

“Oh,” Rose says with a yawn, switching off the phone screen to conserve the battery.

“There’s breakfast downstairs,” Hux says, and Rose looks at him for the first time this morning—his white button-up is still crisp, his hair damp and slicked into place. “Would you—like me to bring something up?”

“That would be nice, yes,” Rose says, finding her voice. It comes out as a bit of a croak, and she clears her throat, crossing her arms over her chest. Hux’s sweater is long on her, thankfully; when she stands, her panties are fully covered. But it wasn’t comfortable or practical to sleep in the stick-on bra she’d worn with her dress, so even under the roomy men’s sweater she worries she may be a little _bouncy_.

Hux looks at her as if he’s trying not to, a faint hint of redness rising in his cheeks. “I’ll be back soon.”

When he’s left again, Rose gets out of bed, crossing the chilly room to her handbag to find the small hairbrush she’d slipped in at the last moment. She’s even more unprepared than usual, having crammed only the essentials into the tiny bag, and she’s moaning the loss of her emergency phone charger, among other things. Luckily the woman from the foyer—the owner, she’d figured—had been able to offer them a small collection of travel toiletries (soap, toothbrushes, and a comb that Hux must’ve used on his hair this morning). Not-so-luckily, she’d not had anything in the ways of pajamas or extra blankets.

Rose opens the wardrobe and slips on her coat. It’ll look silly, but her dress is too heavily-beaded and delicate to just wear around the room. The only chair is the rickety desk chair, so Rose claims that as well, pretending her legs aren’t made of goosebumps. The room doesn’t have a TV or even a bookcase—this is not a place designed for entertainment. _Honestly, it’s barely designed for guests_ , she thinks, glancing back over at the bed with its threadbare, colorless quilt, which in spite of the dark gloom and tiny windows of the room seems to have been bleached in the sun. Going to bed had been awkward—as if Rose requesting Hux’s sweater because she didn’t have enough underwear to sleep in wasn’t already awkward enough. They’d shivered at opposite edges of the bed for long minutes before Rose finally gave in and suggested they sleep back-to-back, sharing their body heat. Sometime in the night Hux had evidently curled around her, but considering the swiftness with which he’d withdrawn this morning, she refuses to delude herself into thinking it was out of any sort of affection.

She can’t _not_ circle back to the day it all went south, the moment their relationship had forever soured for her—ironically, the day he’d asked her to the First Order Holiday Gala. He’d been standing there in the doorway of her office looking like absolute _sin_ in his polished suit and a few strands of hair _just_ escaping his pomade to wisp across his forehead, and Rose’s chest was all butterflies, all elation and _finally, finally, finally_ , and she couldn’t seem to keep her mouth from blurting the first incredulous thought that sprung to her mind— _You mean, like a date?_ But Hux had angled his body away from her then, seeming almost bored as he explained. Something about _expectations_ , about Rose being the logical choice, about _a show of unity_ now that Hux had mended his fences and made the merger between First Order and Resistance official.

And Rose realized she’d gotten it wrong.

The door to the room swings open and Hux enters with a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of standard breakfast food—eggs, sausage, toast, and fruit. Rose suddenly realizes how hungry she is, pushing back the chair to stand, but Hux is depositing the plate on the desk in front of her and already making a retreat.

“I’ll let you know if I hear about the trains,” he says, making his exit swift.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun has set, and Hux is holed up in a common space of the bed-and-breakfast watching the evening news broadcast. Not that he doesn’t already know the news he’s been following all day: the impossibility of this storm, of this stupid tiny stop along the train route, of a city infrastructure problem between the people who operate snowplows and local government. They’re not getting out tonight. Maybe Christmas morning, if they’re lucky. And except to deliver her food—the owner of the place is at least decent in the kitchen—he can’t bring himself to face Rose. He’s worked all day to distract himself from remembering her presence, to avoid thinking about the fact that she’s just upstairs wearing nothing but underwear and his thick sweater. _Because that’s not what this is. That was_ never _what this is_.

He drums his fingers impatiently on the wooden arm of the chair. Rose had seemed tired last night when they checked in—not particularly angry—but he’s certain she blames him for their predicament. Whatever it was she was hoping to do today, she hasn’t been able to do it, and it’s his own selfishness—his own insistence to escort her home—that’s had her holed up in their room with nothing to do all day.

**.**

_earlier_

**.**

Hux watches his date excuse herself with a mixture of apprehension and relief. He would honestly be better off if she decided to stay gone for the rest of the evening, expectations be damned: she’s too distracting in that gorgeous open-backed gown. He’s certain that it was with his own discomfort in mind that Phasma had selected for Rose a dress that would bare her back beneath his guiding touch. _Helping_ , Phasma probably calls it, but then she doesn’t know about the disastrous moment in Rose’s office a month ago, the way Rose had laughed awkwardly at his explanation of the event. _So big fancy boss man needs a fake girlfriend?_ He’d never worked so hard to keep up a façade, never tried so hard to appear disinterested as her words knifed through him with a pain like ice.

Hux pretends not to notice the looks his employees give him when they meet Rose, the way their eyes flicker between the two of them with approval. Phasma’s assessment of their sentiment seems to be right: they all think him too long a bachelor, find him more approachable in a thick sweater with a pretty date beside him. They don’t know that the Rose they’re meeting tonight is nothing like the woman he’s worked alongside for over a year—that this Rose is muted, strangely subdued.   
  


_She hates it here_.

It’s all a fantasy, this partnership between them, but Hux feels unmoored without her, carrying out his next few conversations on autopilot. He’s spoken to nearly everyone worth addressing at this moment, steering clear of large groups and instead catching the attention of pairs and threes—more control that way. The question now is what Hux can possibly do for the next two hours. He’s given the impression of enjoying the drink while only barely imbibing—a necessary trick for maintaining authority—and he’s not about to remedy his boredom in cups.

He begins to drift away from the center of the room, daydreaming about Rose’s soft skin beneath his fingers. The first time he’d touched her there, she’d broken out in goosebumps. His logical brain attributed the reaction to the change in temperature between outside and the coatroom, but a wistful whisper at the back of his mind had suggested something else.

A flash of red across the ballroom catches his attention, and his heart launches into an anxious flutter as he watches her approach. The moment reminds him strangely of one of his first days at Resistance: standing at the edge of the employee cafeteria, overwhelmed by the noise and crush of bodies and the surprised looks on people’s faces as they recognized _him_ , their designated First Order Enemy Number Three. Rose had rescued him then, too, pushing between two tables to stand beside him with a friendly smile. _When you’ve got your plate, you should sit with us_.

Now Rose looks noticeably less sunny—rehearsed, not natural—until she gets within an arm’s length of him and her politician’s smile disappears. “Hey,” she says, holding up her cell phone to show him a weather app, “Rey texted me. Look at this.”

Hux remembers Phasma’s prohibition on phones but bites his tongue, remembering how discomfited Rose had looked when they’d taken her purse along with her coat. He leans down to survey the screen, noting a slow-moving radar diagram of white and purple. “Snow?”

“It’s intensified,” Rose says, scrolling up to the hourly forecast. “100% chance in an hour, well into the night.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Rey says on TV they keep saying ‘blizzard conditions.’”

“Then it’s fortunate that our venue is a hotel.”

“And how much does a room cost?”

“First Order will cover it.”

Rose looks up at him, frowning. “I don’t _want_ to stay here. Hux, some of us have _plans_.”

Hux clenches his teeth at her tone. It’s not her frustration, or even her insinuation that he has nothing better to do—it’s the question of what _plans_ Rose may have that she needs to be home on the morning of Christmas Eve. Not that it matters—she’s made it abundantly clear she’d rather be anywhere other than here with him right now.

“I want to be on the next train,” Rose pushes. “You can tell them I had—I don’t know, that I was sick or something. Or that I went back to ‘our room.’ They don’t have to know I’m not really here.”

Hux glances down at his watch, knowing full well that he wants nothing more than to leave himself. “Give me twenty minutes.”

**.**

**.**

**.**

The news broadcast ends and an older couple are wandering into the TV room, which is Hux’s cue to leave. He glances into the dining room—more guests have appeared, a large portion of the seats taken—and then into the foyer that serves as a tiny reception area.

There’s nowhere for him to go, nothing for him to do—all afternoon he’d flopped from one surface to another, choosing the least-populated common areas and avoiding Rose like the plague. All the stores in town are closed—the residents, it seems, can’t be bothered to work on a snow day that happens to be Christmas Eve. As he move past the dining room he hears talk of Christmas crackers, and it’s the threat of forced Christmas cheer that’s enough to drive him back upstairs to their room.

“Hey, Mister Hux!” the owner calls down the hallway as he begins to climb the bannister. She’s an older woman, short and a little scattered and blinking up at him through Coke-bottle glasses as she hurries into the room. _Maz_ , she’d called herself, though he’s not sure whether that’s a first or last name. “Take this! For you and your girl. Merry Christmas.”

Hux has no choice but to receive the bottle she all but pushes into his hands, turning on her heel and striding away with surprising speed and purpose for someone of her indeterminately advanced years. He reads the label—it’s whiskey, and not some rot-gut brand. “Maz?” he calls after her.

“No charge—it’s a gift! _I’m_ certainly not going to drink it. If you don’t like it, just leave it in the room when you check out tomorrow.” She waves a single hand before she disappears through a doorway, and that is that.

Hux glances up the stairs toward the room he’s sharing with the woman he’s spent the last seven months fantasizing about—who clearly doesn’t share his feelings on what their relationship should be. _If ever there was a time for drinking, this is it._


	3. Chapter 3

Rose is sitting up in bed, bare legs under the quilt, doodling aimlessly on a pad of yellow paper she’d found in the desk drawer. She glides the cheap pen back and forth on the pad, creating patterns of squiggles and loops. It’s meditative, the doodling—something she does when she’s on an annoying phone call. She’s had a surprising number of those in the last few months, ever since Poe promoted her.

There’s a knock on the door—Hux, of course—and at her shout of _come in_ he enters. Rose makes a point of not looking up from the pad of paper. “What’s it like down there?” she asks.

“Cheery,” Hux says, his flat tone telling her exactly what he thinks about _that_.

All day Rose has been contemplating slipping back into her dress, if only to get out of the room; but downstairs is some sort of full-on Christmas celebration, and Rose just isn’t feeling it. She’d texted Rey late this morning about being stuck and unable to attend her Christmas Eve party; but Rey’s promise to take embarrassing snapchats of Poe and Finn has become a moot point, as Rose’s phone has since died.

Rose is drawing a careful spiral—as tight as possible without the lines touching—when a sound catches her attention. “What’s that?” she calls to Hux, who has settled at the antique desk.

“Whiskey.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“On the house, apparently.”

Rose continues doodling silently, and the bottle makes a sound—it seems he’s tasted the stuff. “And how is it?”

Hux clears his throat gently. “Not terrible.”

Rose continues with her spiral. In her peripheral vision, she sees Hux continue with the drink. “Why thank you, Hux, I’d _love_ some.”

“You’re not interested in whiskey,” he sniffs.

Rose rolls her eyes, but of course he’s right. _He remembers_ , a voice in the back of her head says, and the pen sticks in the thin paper, skidding across the design when she gives it too hard a tug. Frustrated, Rose slashes elsewhere through her spiral.

“I’ll be telling Leia soon,” Hux says.

Rose glances up from her yellow pad. “Telling her what?”

“About splitting my time.”

Hux has been associated with both companies for months. Rose frowns. “How so?”

“The—office, I mean,” Hux says, dropping their eye contact to contemplate the bottle. “Mitaka mentioned it last night. I’ll be in my First Order office most days now.”

“And that’s what you want?”

Hux looks back at her. He looks tired, the same way he’s looked for at least the last month, and she’s reminded of the way he’d looked when he first arrived at Resistance, back when he’d just taken an extended leave of absence from First Order to help engineer the demise of the rest of the executive board. That early Hux had seemed almost haunted, consumed by work, robotic. Working alongside him, Rose had gotten to see him work with his hands, apply a different part of his brain. He’d really seemed happy being in charge of machines instead of people.

“Because _I_ hate it,” Rose says, turning her attention back to the legal pad, moving to a clean corner to draw a pattern of cubes. “I hate the meetings and the phone calls. I’d rather be programming and building things.”

Hux only hums in response. The bottle sloshes again.

Rose fills up the corner of her pad with cubes, and for just a moment she feels like they could be sharing the big working table, like it’s summer again and Hux is looking down his nose at her in a way that feels _fond_. She speaks her mind: “I feel like I’ll disappoint Poe if I ask to go back.”

_Slosh_. “Perish the thought.”

Rose sighs, clamming up again. Before, Hux’s cutting remarks felt friendly, more like teasing than actual malice. But perhaps she’s only been hearing them through an over-fond haze. Perhaps he’s only ever been who he seems to be.

“Rose.”

She pauses, pen just above the paper, steeling herself as unbidden butterflies race through her chest at the sound of her name in his accent.

“You look miserable.”

“ _You_ look miserable,” Rose spits back. Hux is staring her down—and though his lips remain neutral, something about his eyes feels almost tragic. But he blinks and then it’s gone as he takes another pull from the bottle.

Rose thinks of how angry she’d been to have him take the train back with her the night before. All she’d wanted to do was curl up in a lonely window seat and lick her wounds, but he hadn’t even allowed her that. _You know, drunk doesn’t sound all that awful right now, considering._ And so Rose finds herself dumping the legal pad on the bed next to her, pushing the blankets off. “You’re sharing,” she announces, stomping toward him and reaching for the bottle. Hux doesn’t protest when she wrenches it away and takes a swallow.

Rose coughs, just barely managing not to choke as she splutters against the burn. _Still don’t like whiskey_. Hux flexes his fingers, indicating he wants the bottle; Rose holds it just out of reach. He’s unbuttoned his top button, and even though Rose had a brief glimpse of him in his undershirt prior, something about that _single_ button makes her feel hot all over. _Or is it the whiskey?_

After contemplating the lines of his face just a _tad_ too long, she surrenders the bottle, shaking her head. “Whatever.”

“It doesn’t matter what Dameron thinks,” Hux calls after her as she goes to climb back into bed. “You’re a damn good—” His voice trails off in strangled surprise; belatedly, she realizes she’s probably flashed him, glad at least that she’s wearing unremarkable cotton panties and not something more _sensational_.

Hux clears his throat. “You could have any job you wanted.”

Rose just picks up the legal pad again, allowing herself a brief glance at his flushed face as she feels her own face warm.

One more slosh of the bottle and Hux pushes back the desk chair, moving to stand over her where she sits in the bed. He hesitates a moment, frowning at the covers, then seats himself beside her covered legs.

**.**

“What?” Rose sounds a little surprised, pushing the paper and pen aside.

Hux clears his throat far longer than necessary. His brain is fuzzy, the whiskey silencing his misgivings into a gentle buzz. He won’t be seeing her much longer—won’t be working with her unless he seeks out her office. He can’t remember the last time he was drunk, the last time he’d consumed this much whiskey or this much _anything_. But just a moment ago she looked at him— _the way she_ _used to_ —and he’s decided _to hell with it_. “I understand you’re angry.” _Good start, good start_. Rose doesn’t seem all that surprised at his statement, so he continues. “I know you made it clear that,” he swallows, “you don’t want what I want. But I wish,” his voice drops to a whisper as he follows the lines of her body with his eyes, the way his sweater rests on her breasts—“I wish we were still friends.” _Friends? Is that what we were?_ His eyes snag on her breasts a minute longer, the question forgotten.

Rose opens her mouth once, closes it, then tries again. Her eyes have gone wide, and she leans toward him as she splutters, “You wish—what do you mean, what _you_ want? I—I thought—I thought _you_ made it clear that this gala thing was all business.” Her voice pitches higher in her incredulity when Hux’s hand settles over one of her legs through the quilt. _That’s interesting_ , Hux thinks, flexing his fingers around her soft calf, surprised at how his body seems to be obeying his mind but not his good sense. _Who needs good sense_ —but Rose is still talking—“You went so far out of your way to make sure _I_ knew that _you_ didn’t want me there.”

_Incorrect_ , he thinks. The way her eyes widen, maybe he’s said it as well. No matter. “Rose,” he says, scooting closer to her on the bed, looking intently into her brown eyes. _Beautiful_. He likes her like this, soft and vulnerable and without makeup or embellishment. He’d woken curled around her and had to excuse himself immediately—it was torture enough existing in the same room as her knowing she had no pants on underneath _his_ sweater. In all the months he’s known her he’s _dreamed_ of seeing her like that and now she’s fawning up at him, her lips slightly parted and her eyes shining and _maybe_ , just _maybe_ there might still be a chance. He squeezes her calf again, imagining the smoothness of her skin, and too late his brain catches up to his mouth as he breathes, “Rose, I want you _everywhere_.”

**.**

_Everywhere._

He’s leaning over her, hair a bit loose and mussed, eyes _smoldering_ and that hand _squeezing her leg_ and it’s all _intent_ , it’s all _heat_ , it’s all _real_ —and Rose reaches up and steadies his face with both of her hands as she leans up to kiss him.

He nips at her bottom lip, pushes against the seam of her lips with his tongue, and she gives as good as she gets, luxuriating as he drinks her in. One of his hands cradles the back of her head as he slips his fingers into her hair, and his other hand moves up her leg, squeezing her thick thigh through the covers. “Rose,” he whispers like a starving man, his voice breaking, “Rose.” He’s dropping soft openmouthed kisses along her jawline, down her neck until the hem of his own sweater stops him, squeezing at her leg, and Rose is in ecstasy, in shock, until she smells the whiskey again and remembers.

“Hux, you’re drunk,” she murmurs against his forehead.

“’m fine,” he protests, pulling back to untuck his shirt and unbuckle his belt.

“Nope, nope, you’re drunk,” Rose says softly, caging his fumbling hands in hers. “You’re drunk. Sssssh. You’re drunk.”

Hux looks her in the face, his expression wounded and somehow _honest_ , maybe the most honest she’s ever seen him.

“Believe me, I want to.” Rose murmurs, leaning up bump her nose playfully into his. “When you’re sober, ok?”

Hux nuzzles under her chin, leaving another wet kiss.

“ _Oh_ ,” Rose breathes.

**.**

Hux wakes with too-bright sunlight in his face and a pounding headache, recalling only after he opens his eyes where he is and what he did last night. He starts to remember it all, hazy though it may be—whiskey and kissing and _oh God_ , Rose taking him by the hands and telling him _no_. He sits up straight in the otherwise-empty bed, the movement only making his head worse, and drops his head into his hands as a cold dread settles in.

He remembers settling back against his pillows, tugging Rose close to him, pressing kisses to her hair as he fell asleep. But the conversation is hazy. Did Rose curl around him willingly, or escape as soon as he’d fallen asleep. _Oh God, I’ve ruined everything_.

The door opens, and Hux’s head shoots up in surprise. Rose comes in, clad in his sweater _and_ his coat (with the belt and all buttons fastened, her legs are covered enough to give the impression of being properly dressed) and balancing in one hand two coffee mugs. “Hey,” she says, smiling and holding out the mug to him, “I thought you might appreciate this.”

It takes his brain too long to process her cheeriness, so that he’s already begun an apology before he rethinks it: “Rose, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Rose looks suddenly stricken and Hux steels himself, bracing for whatever she’s thinking. But instead she crosses to the bed to hand him his mug of coffee, taking a step back and holding her own mug in both hands. “I’m going to need you to finish that sentence,” she says, her voice wavering slightly. “If what you said last night is true, we keep seriously misunderstanding each other and I’m not doing this again.”

Hux takes a gulp of the coffee—scalding hot though it is—and gags at the bitter taste as it settles in his throat. He can’t think of how to say what he means, but he tries. “I didn’t mean to pressure you. My behavior last night was uncontrolled. I—”

“You were sweet,” Rose says softly. She holds the mug close to her face, her eyes flickering up and down his skinny form. Too late it occurs to Hux that he’s sitting before her in only his white undershirt, that without his button-up he must look especially small. “You said you wanted me everywhere. Remember? Then _I_ kissed _you_.”

There’s something _hungry_ in her eyes, and Hux nods, feeling his face heat up.

“There’s plenty else you could apologize for.” Rose sets her coffee cup on the bedside table. “Like making me think I was the last person on earth you wanted to come to the gala with you. Or was that a sudden change of heart?”

Hux shakes his head before he finds the words. “No.” His head hurts from the shaking, so he stills, taking another drink of coffee. “No, I thought you were the disinterested one. Calling yourself my fake girlfriend—”

Her hand is on her hip—or seems to be, swallowed up as her arm is by his coat. “You didn’t act like you wanted me as your real one.”

“As you said,” Hux sniffs, “a grave misunderstanding.”

Rose considers him a moment longer before leaning up to plant a kiss on his cheek and he— _short-circuits_ , barely keeping a grip on his coffee.

“Got any plans for Christmas?” she whispers against his skin.

He turns his head to touch his lips to hers, keeping his mouth closed to be mindful of morning-breath. The sensation is both familiar and somehow new and entirely wonderful. She smells like coffee and the cologne that lingers on his sweater and he almost forgets himself and opens his mouth to her before he remembers to pull back. “I’m not sure, beyond going home,” he murmurs, ducking out of her reach to set his coffee on the table beside hers. “You?”

Rose kisses along his jawline as he sits up, drawing back to give him a mischievous smile. “Oh, I have a feeling I’m going to be _very_ busy.”

“Hm,” he says, snaking his arm around her waist. “Do tell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...annnnnd that's all she wrote! Happy Secret Spy!~


End file.
